


Something that Feels Like Hope

by BeaArthurPendragon



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Amputee Bucky Barnes, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Awkward Flirting, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes is a Dad, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Gay Bucky Barnes, Getting Together, M/M, Meet-Cute, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Shrunkyclunks, Top Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:21:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21545953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeaArthurPendragon/pseuds/BeaArthurPendragon
Summary: Captain America, feeling gloomy around the holidays and exhausted from hobnobbing with the rich and famous at yet another charity gala, escapes into an empty room for some peace and quiet.Army veteran James Barnes is the founder of the Gulmira Project, which provides high-quality prostheses to civilians injured in the Afghanistan and Iraq Wars, and needs to find a place to practice his speech.You'll never guess what happens next.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov
Comments: 128
Kudos: 959





	Something that Feels Like Hope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [betheflame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/betheflame/gifts).



> My first Shrunkyclunks! I feel like I've finally arrived in the fandom. :) For [betheflame](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21545953), because this is as close as I get to Hallmark Channel romance. Beta'd by the lovely [bennettmp339](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bennettmp339/pseuds/bennettmp339)!

Steve was miserable.

He was decked out in the tuxedo that Pepper had commissioned for him—navy with black lapels and a dark red tie, forever on-brand—with a glass of champagne in one hand and a ceaseless carousel of VIP’s hands passing through his other. _Senator, good work on that aid package to Sokovia. Admiral, congratulations on taking over the Nimitz. Miss Lizzo, thank you for your generous gift to the Avengers Foundation. I know the kids loved your show._

Smile, greet, repeat whatever biographical tidbit Pepper had briefed him on that afternoon, move on. It really wasn’t much different from selling war bonds, showing up at these holiday charity galas, making sure the rich and powerful knew where the Avengers’ values stood. Tonight’s gala was—God, he couldn’t even remember which one it was or even which hotel ballroom he was in this time, he’d been to so many in the past few weeks—but it didn’t matter. There was so much misery in the world that even Steve sometimes had trouble finding enough space in his heart to care about it all.

_Mr. Vice President, thank you for your work on climate change. It couldn’t be more important. Madam Secretary, I hear your wife expects to make a full recovery. I’m so glad._

He swallowed back a bubble of grief and pressed on through the crowd. Even though he’d come to terms with Peggy’s marriage long ago, and even though Peggy’s Alzheimer’s had stolen her from him long before she died, this was still his first Christmas without her, and there were still no words big enough to bridge the hole she’d left in his life.

She’d had a brief burst of lucidity the last time he visited, though she’d confused him—again—for one of her late brother Michael’s friends home from the war on leave. He’d blinked back tears and given her his biggest smile and gone along with it as the doctors had told him to do, validating whatever reality she was in at the moment so she wouldn’t be scared—and asked her if she had any message she wanted him to pass along to her brother.

_You know, you can tell him he was right for talking me out of marrying Fred. I’ve just met the most remarkable man in America and I rather think I’ve fallen in love. Isn’t that funny?_

Work helped. There was no shortage of evil in this world, and he had nothing but time to fight it, so fight it he did. He told himself he was carrying on Peggy’s legacy, that he was honoring her commitment to make the world a safer place—but when Natasha cornered him in the Tower’s communal kitchen a few days ago and told him he was really just staying busy to avoid his feelings, he knew she was right.

As usual.

So that was something he’d resolved to deal with after the holidays. Get therapy: the last remaining item on his 21st century to-do list. To be honest, he felt better just knowing he’d decided to deal with it. It made the last few weeks until the new year feel a little less hopeless and empty, at least. A little.

Still, he realized as he scanned the room, he couldn’t help but notice that nearly everyone had someone else on their arm except him and he suddenly felt powerfully and petulantly lonely. Back during the war, Peggy had always been so much better than him at parties like this. He hated doing them without her.

“Wonderful to see you again, Mr. Hanks. I’m a huge fan of your movies,” Steve said, then realized he couldn’t sustain his smile for one more second. He let it fall as he patted his chest pocket and took out his phone, even though it hadn’t vibrated. “My apologies. Could you excuse me for a moment?”

He pushed through the crowd to the bar where he exchanged his untouched champagne flute for a double of scotch, and then retreated down a hallway that extended past the coat check in search of somewhere quiet.

At the end of the hall was a small, wood-paneled office with a pile of coats on the sofa and a small hill of hard-side cases and tripods—obviously this was where the photographers and sound engineers had been instructed to store their things.

But there was a comfortable-looking chair next to the desk, and as he sat down he opened his texts and scrolled through them to see if there was anyone he still needed to reply to.

As if she could read his mind, Natasha texted him: _Surviving the party?_

_Barely._

_Which one is this?_

_Hell if I know. How’s Madripoor?_

He sighed and watched the dots flicker and then disappear three times as Natasha began and then stopped typing her message.

_Shit, sorry, duty calls._

_Stay safe._

_What’s the fun in that?_

Steve sighed and stared at his phone, blinking away a disappointed tear that had decided to surprise him.

Just in time, too, because as he did, the door opened and a man walked in, looking distracted until he clocked Steve sitting in the corner in the dark, lit only by the glow of his phone. "Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to—” Steve could tell from the sharp inhale that the man had just recognized him. “Are you okay?"

"Me? Oh, yeah. Just needed to—” he looked down at the phone, considered lying about having to take an important call, then realized he wasn’t sure he’d ever met a civilian who’d asked _him_ if he was all right. He put the phone away and flashed the man an abashed smile. “Sometimes I think these charity galas take more out of me than most combat missions."

“You must do a lot of these around the holidays,” the man said, laughing softly in sympathy and stepping into the room. Now that he wasn’t backlit by the bright hallway lights, Steve could see that the man was dressed in a slim black suit, shirt, and tie, with dark hair that wanted to curl a little bit on top. Steve deflated a little more. Men like this—modern, fashionable, attractive—always reminded him how out of step he still was.

But there was nothing to be done about that. “I don’t mean to complain,” he said quickly. “They’re all good causes and I want to do right by them, but there’s only so many sob stories you can hear before you have to disengage, you know?” He knew he shouldn’t speak so carelessly to a stranger, but he was just so _done_ …..

“Oh, believe me, I get it,” the man said, smiling a little, and Steve relaxed. “It’s easy to get burned out on human misery, no matter how much you care.”

“You do a lot of these, too?”

“I’ve done my fair share.”

Steve finally roused himself out of his funk long enough to notice was something expectant in the way the man was standing near the door, as though he couldn’t decide whether to leave.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said, quickly standing. “Did you need the room?”

“If you don’t mind,” the man said, then held up a small handful of index cards clamped between a pair of blunt-tipped steel hooks. “I have to practice my sob story.”

Only then did Steve clock the small Rangers pin on the man’s lapel and realize he was the Army veteran who had founded the— _ah, that was it_ —third-world prosthetics charity that was the beneficiary of tonight’s gala. “Ah, shit,” Steve sighed and shook his head ruefully. “You’re James Barnes. Of course.”

The man smiled. “Of course.”

Steve lifted his scotch in a mock toast. “You can call me Captain Asshole.”

Barnes laughed softly. “Don’t worry about it. I’d much rather be out in the field with my partners than shaking down millionaires for money.” He shrugged and looked down at his notes. “But it’s hard to argue with the results.” 

“Well, I’ll let you get to it,” Steve said, standing up and straightening his uniform. “I’m sure there’s still at least one senator whose hand I haven’t shaken out there.”

“I’ll keep it short so you can get out of here early.”

“You don’t have to do that on my account.”

“I told you, I hate these things too,” Barnes said. “Believe me, it’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

* * *

“The last thing I remember about my left arm was looking down during the battle of Gulmira eighteen months ago, and seeing a piece of steel as big as a butcher knife jammed into my bicep all the way down to the bone,” Barnes began, and the room immediately came to attention. “The next thing I knew, I was waking up in a military hospital in Germany and it was gone,” he said, gesturing with his right hand at a spot about six inches below his left shoulder to indicate where the amputation had occurred.

“But I was lucky. I got to go to Walter Reed, where I had access to the best physical and occupational therapists and the best prosthetic technology in the world. Within a matter of months, I was able to do most everything I’d been able to do before, and today I could probably count the number of things I can’t do anymore on one hand. Which is convenient, at least.”

He paused as the room laughed anxiously. “My son warned me not to tell a dad joke up here,” he said with mock dismay, and this time the laughter sounded more genuine.

“Nine years ago, when I arrived in Afghanistan for my first tour, fresh out of Ranger school and raring to get into the thick of battle, I knew civilian casualties were inevitable. Yes, we knew that it was our duty to not only serve our country but to uphold the rules of engagement and make sure we didn’t hurt anyone who wasn’t shooting at us. But sometimes we failed. Sometimes we had bad intel. Sometimes we made mistakes.”

He looked at his notes, then put his cards into his pocket. “And something I didn’t really realize, because for all my training, I was still young and dumb and didn’t really understand how war worked, was that civilian casualties didn’t just mean deaths. I had no idea how many of these people would survive, often with permanent disabilities, or that in many cases, they would have little to no resources to help them adapt.

“And that’s how the Gulmira Project was born. Using 3D printers and affordable, easily available hardware, our three mobile prosthetics clinics can design, build, and custom-fit a durable and easy-to-maintain prosthesis within a day or two. And—this part is key—we then provide replacement hardware and train the users on how to fix or replace broken parts themselves. We can’t give people their limbs back, but we have to do everything we can to give them their independence back. And with your support, we can reach even more people.”

He paused for a moment until the applause petered out, and then gestured toward a table right up front by the dais.

“I want to take a moment to recognize one of you in particular: Tony Stark, who not only provided our seed capital but donated the expertise of some of his top engineers to help us design our prostheses specifically with the physically demanding lives our users lead in mind. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Tony. We couldn’t have done this without you.

“I’m telling you all this not only because Tony put that in our contract—” Barnes paused as the room laughed, “but because I want you all to know that we’re serious about what we’re doing here. These limbs are simple, yes, but it’s still Stark Tech through and through. We’ve cut no corners, and we never will. In fact, the arm I’m using tonight is our standard upper-arm prosthesis, and it’s not just for show—I spend more than 100 days a year in some of the most remote corners of the world with my partners, and this is the only arm I trust to stand up to the conditions out there.”

He held his arm out then, extended and bent his elbow, spread and released the hooks. “Tony’s dying for me to take his latest prototype for a spin, with a cybernetic neural interface that completely replicates natural hand function—yes, Tony, I _was_ paying attention to your sales pitch—but I wouldn’t ask anyone to use a limb I wouldn’t use myself, and I wouldn’t ask any of you to invest in one, either.”

He gestured eloquently around the room with his left arm, as if to erase any remaining doubt about his commitment to his product. “But please, don’t take my word for it. We’ve set up demonstration stations all around the ballroom so you can see for yourself, and of course, please feel free to ask me any questions you’d like. Thank you again for coming out, and enjoy the rest of the party.”

Steve watched him as he stepped off the dais into the crowd. It was obvious that Barnes wasn’t kidding when he’d said he’d done his fair share of these events. He worked the room easily, smiling and small-talking and always skillfully walking this or that VIP over to the nearest demonstration station because, Steve suspected, that was where the deals were sealed.

When Barnes finally made it around the room to Steve, he grinned. “Thanks for sticking around.”

“I’ll have you know, thanks to that speech you obviously _didn’t_ need to practice, I’m doubling the size of my check,” Steve said with mock gravity. “My accountant is going to be very angry with me.”

Barnes laughed, and Steve noticed that it was a different laugh than the one he used with the other donors—no less genuine, but warmer somehow, and brighter. Barnes was exceptionally charismatic, he realized, even more so in person than he was on the stage. “You want to see how easy it is to swap out our mechanical knee?” he asked, gesturing toward the station behind Steve. “It’s just three parts and all you need is a pair of pliers and a screwdriver.”

Steve wanted to refuse, wanted to tell him that he wasn’t just another mark, that Barnes didn’t need to impress him, but he could tell from the smile on the man’s face how proud he was of the work he was doing, so he said yes and followed him over to the booth. He watched as Barnes nimbly removed one knee joint from the model leg and then assembled and installed another within a matter of minutes.

He wasn’t just showing off the knee joint, Steve realized, but the hook at the end of his arm, too. He wanted people to see for themselves how well it worked, how much he could do with it. It was a good trick, and Steve was impressed by it.

“You want to try it yourself?” Barnes asked, handing the screwdriver to Steve.

“No, I believe you,” Steve said, and then, before he could think about it, “Could I buy you a drink? If you’re done gladhanding, I mean.”

“It’s an open bar,” Barnes said with a wry smile. “But sure.”

They took their drinks over to a pair of wingback chairs set in a small alcove off to the side. Barnes sighed as he sat and swirled the whiskey around the ice in his glass, his relief at getting away from the party almost palpable in the air between them.

“Look serious as we talk,” Steve prompted. “I’ve learned that people don’t interrupt Captain America when it looks important. It comes in really handy when you need to escape a crowd for a few minutes.”

Barnes gave him a small smile. “So are you rescuing me or am I rescuing you in this scenario?”

“Maybe a little bit of both?”

Barnes dutifully extinguished his smile, but Steve couldn’t help but notice how the corners of his mouth naturally turned up just a little anyway. The effect was, he was trying not to notice, devastatingly charming.

They ended up chatting for nearly half an hour—a lifetime at an event like this. Steve learned that Barnes was 32 years old, came from a small town in Indiana, now lived in Brooklyn, had three younger sisters, had been a sniper in the Rangers, loved country music from the 70’s, and was slowly restoring a vintage Harley whenever he was in town.

“How much do you travel?” Steve asked.

“I spend about half the year either out in the field with my partners or flying around the country trying to convince rich people and corporations to give us money,” he said. “The rest of the time I’m here, either working with our engineers or keeping up with all the paperwork. I really should hire an assistant, but I’m too busy,” he added ruefully.

“Sounds like a good kind of busy, though,” Steve said.

Barnes nodded. “It is. If I ever settle down and start a family, I’ll probably have to rethink things, but for now it works.” He took a sip of his drink and then studied the ice for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” Steve ventured. “But your son—?”

James nodded. “His lives with his mom in Indiana.”

“Must be hard being so far away from him.”

James gave him a knowing smile, as though he could predict the way the rest of the conversation was going to go. “We’ve never lived together. We were 17 when he was born, so I joined the Army as soon as I graduated from high school. I told myself it was because I wanted to do the right thing and support my kid, which was true, but it was also because I had realized I was gay and didn’t want to break her heart. Figured the distance would do it for me, and it did.” He glanced up at Steve and took another sip of his drink. “For the record, I’m not proud of that.”

“Eighteen-year-old boys aren’t generally known for their wisdom,” Steve said, remembering some of the things he’d risked in alleys and bar bathrooms back in the ‘30s for the sake of another man’s touch.

“Anyway, we did eventually talk about it, before I shipped out for Afghanistan for the first time, and it took some work and a lot of forgiveness on her part that I didn’t deserve, but we’re good now,” James said, then gave Steve an embarrassed smile and shook his head. “Long story short, my son’s a good kid, we talk a lot, I go back to Indiana for Thanksgiving and Christmas, he spends his spring break with me, and I have no idea why I’m telling you all this. I’m sorry.”

“I’m the one who should apologize,” Steve said, blushing. “Sometimes I forget how hard it is for people to tell Captain America to back off, even when I’m not in uniform.”

“Oh, you’re not so scary,” James said, his eyes flicking up and briefly meeting Steve’s before darting away. “Anyway, to answer your original question, yes, it’s definitely the kind of busy I need right now. I was planning to stay in the Army till I retired, so when I got home about 20 years ahead of schedule, I just wanted to be useful. I wanted to do something good. And, no offense to you, I know now that war is the absolute worst possible way to achieve that.”

“I’m not offended at all,” Steve said. “I agree with you. I’d like to think I prevent more conflicts than I prolong, but I would love nothing more than to have the day come when nobody needs Captain America anymore.”

Barnes took a sip of his drink and settled more comfortably in his chair. “Yeah? What would you do instead?”

Steve had a clever, well-workshopped answer to that question—every journalist who’d ever profiled him seemed to be under the impression that they were the first person to ever ask it— _If we ever achieve world peace, I guess I’ll find out._

But that wouldn’t do here. He liked Barnes too much to play coy. “I was an artist before the war,” he said. “I think my official biography says I washed dishes at an automat to pay the rent, which is true, but I painted on the side. I was pretty good, too, but it was the Depression, and even the famous artists weren’t making any money, so I never sold anything.”

“What’d you do with the paintings?”

Steve shrugged. “Stored them in the basement of my apartment building while I was in Europe, and when I came out of the ice, the building was long gone. Probably ended up at the dump with the rest of the debris when they tore the place down.” He shook his head. “I guess that’s what I get for getting into abstract expressionism. Most of my canvases would have looked like random blotches of paint to most people.”

But instead of laughing at Steve’s self-deprecating joke, Barnes frowned. “That’s awful. I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine losing a life’s work like that.”

“It’s not—” Steve began to say, then stopped as his surprise caught up with him. Barnes was the first person he’d ever met who seemed to take the loss as seriously as Steve himself had. “Thank you,” he said. “So few people I’d known before were still alive—I was kind of hoping at least the pictures had survived.”

Barnes leaned forward. “Do you still paint?” he asked.

Steve blushed. “Sometimes. Don’t have as much time for it as I used to, I’m afraid, but I’ve finished a few.” Then—he can’t blame alcohol anymore, but there was something undeniable about Barnes that made him feel loose and impulsive—he added, “Come by the Tower sometime and I’ll show you.”

Barnes straightened up a little and shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Ah, maybe,” he said, though Steve could tell from his tone of voice that he meant _no_. “Thank you.”

“I made you uncomfortable,” Steve said, feeling a cold flush of embarrassment spread through his chest. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Barnes said, shaking his head ruefully as he stood. “It’s just that I don’t, ah, mix business and pleasure, if I’m taking your meaning correctly.” Then he opened his mouth as if to say something else, then closed it, then changed his mind again. “I _am_ flattered, though.”

 _I could tear up my check_ , Steve wanted to say, but instead he plastered a professional smile on his face as he stood as well. “That came out wrong,” he said quickly, grasping for some way to back out of his approach. “You’re the first person who’s ever seemed interested in my art, and I guess I just got a little overenthusiastic.”

“The truth is, I don’t know a thing about art,” Barnes said, flashing Steve a kind smile that told Steve he’d picked up on the lie and was graciously going to let it stand. “But, ah—” he glanced down briefly before meeting Steve’s eyes again with a new, searching quality that made Steve think that he’d been telling the truth about feeling flattered by Steve’s attention. “I could tell it was important to you. Good luck with it.”

“And good luck with the Gulmira Project,” Steve said, offering his hand to shake, trying not to read anything into firm pressure with which Barnes took it. “For whatever it’s worth, I really do believe in what you’re doing, and if there’s anything I can do to help—and this is unconditional—please let me know.”

Barnes smiled more genuinely then, and—Steve had to have been imagining this—regretfully? “Always good to know I can call on the Star-Spangled Man with a Plan,” he said with a wicked little grin. “I might take you up on that if we don’t make our fundraising target.”

“Please do,” Steve said earnestly.

Barnes glanced back at the party. “Well. I do need to sing for my supper now,” he said. “Thanks for the respite, though.”

“Same.”

Barnes was still holding Steve’s hand, or maybe Steve was still holding his. He laughed a little and so did Barnes.

“Right, then,” Steve said, letting go first and gesturing toward the crowd. “After you.”

He tried not to admire Barnes’ ass as he followed him back into the thick of the party, watching how his coattails moved invitingly with each step. _Don’t be a creep, Rogers_ , he chided himself. _He said no._

Then he lost Barnes to the crowd and took a left back to his table. He killed another quarter of an hour shooting the shit with a couple of generals he’d worked with in Sokovia a few years ago, then made his excuses to Tony and Pepper and headed out into the cold night air.

* * *

He decided to walk the 23 blocks back to the Tower. It was a rare pleasure, but time of year he could often go about anonymously: In his long navy dress coat and a dark red cashmere scarf, there was little to distinguish him from any of the other New Yorkers bundled up for December, and the icy sidewalks made people even less inclined to look up and make eye contact than usual.

The city was lit up prettily for the holidays—there were so many more lights than there were when he was a kid, and he had to admit he still thrilled at the wonder of it all—and it never failed to make him smile whenever the city let a bit of its magic leak out.

But the holidays always made him feel melancholy, too, conspiring as they did to remind him that everyone he’d ever loved was now gone—even Peggy. Oh, he was close to the other Avengers—the daily group texts between them always made him feel warm, no matter how inane they were—but he’d never been able to shake the sense that he was always an exception somehow, that he was just a stray that had been taken in.

 _Family’s what you make it, Rogers_ , he could hear Natasha chide, and she would know more than most. She was the one he trusted most with his dark moods, with his moments of self-pity and loneliness. There was no one in the world Captain America could tell except her that sometimes he still missed his mother so acutely it hurt.

He never talked about Peggy, though—he wasn’t sure he could ever talk about Peggy. Peggy, who was his best friend, his first lover, and then, late in the war, the first person he’d ever confessed that he sometimes felt the same way attraction to men that he felt for women. And to his shock and delight, she hadn’t even batted an eye. _Thank God,_ she’d said, snuggling deeper into the curve of his arm. _I thought I was the only one._

And then, suddenly, he found himself thinking about James Barnes instead, passionate and committed and intelligent and good and charming and Christ, so very handsome—Steve was overwhelmed by how much he liked and admired the man. _Oh, shut up and just admit you fancy him_ , he heard Peggy say in his mind, and she was right. The last time he’d felt this besotted with someone he’d just met was the day he met her at boot camp.

He tried not to read too much into that similarity.

 _Don’t be a creep, Rogers_ , he reminded himself again. _He said no_.

Well, that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the crush for what it was, enjoy the delicious sensation of a slowly thawing heart, the giddy silliness of having to suppress a smile at the thought of the man, the slightly illicit pleasure of picturing the man’s face when he closed his hand around his own cock later that night.

He would enjoy it until it burned itself out in a week or two, and then he’d talk about it with his therapist and move on. At least, he told himself, he was starting to feel things again, or starting to _let_ himself feel things again, and surely that was some kind of progress.

It was nearly midnight when he arrived at Stark Tower’s executive entrance. He swept his wrist over the sensor and the chip in his watch silently unlocked the door leading to the private lobby with the elevators that went directly to the Avengers Residence.

“Good evening, Mr. Rogers,” JARVIS said in his usual prim murmur. “Shall I let your guest know you’ve arrived?”

“My guest?” Steve said, trying to stuff an unreasonable burst of hope back down inside him.

“Mr. Barnes is here to view the paintings,” JARVIS said, and Steve felt slightly dizzy. “He’s waiting for you in the executive reception lounge.”

“He is?” Steve asked stupidly. “Now?”

“Shall I ask him to leave?”

“No, no,” Steve said quickly, unknotting his scarf. “I’ll talk to him.”

He checked himself in the mirror, and though perhaps the loose scarf and the open coat made him look a little louche, he was remarkably unrumpled from the walk and even his hair appeared reasonably behaved.

He touched his watch to the panel next to the heavy door to the left of the reception desk and JARVIS admitted him into the comfortable, well-armored, wood-paneled lounge where unexpected guests, both welcome and not, were stashed until an Avenger could be summoned to deal with them.

Barnes was standing by the window in his coat—he had been pacing, which was kind of cute—and from the surprised look on his face, Steve could tell he’d startled him.

“Ah, hi,” Barnes said. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Steve echoed uncertainly. “You changed your mind about the pictures?”

Barnes shrugged and bit his lip. “Kind of.”

“Kind of.”

He glanced down and clasped his hands in front of him—or rather, he took his left hook into his right hand, his thumb anxiously rubbing along the curve of the steel. “You see, the nice thing about working for yourself is that you get to make the rules,” he said quickly, only looking up at Steve on the last word and gave him a shy smile. “And you get to break them.”

Steve was reeling. Sharpest strategic mind in modern history, and he was completely unmoored by the beautiful man who’d surprised him on his doorstep. “What?”

“At the party, I said I don’t mix business with pleasure,” Barnes said, stepping forward, bolder now. “But I thought I might make an exception.”

Steve willed the looping voice of doubt shouting in his ear to shut up: _This is a bad idea, you’re still grieving, you’re not ready, you haven’t been with a man since the war, you haven’t been with anyone at all since that fling with Maria, you’re not ready_ —

 _Steve_ , he could hear Peggy scold. _Would you live your life, already?_

Then he took a deep breath, covered up his nerves with a smile, and gestured toward the elevator. “Would you like to come up?”

* * *

After a somewhat awkward, sweetly shy, silent ride up the elevator to the Residence, they emerged onto a landing that overlooked the large open common area and kitchen below. But instead of taking the stairs down, Steve led Barnes down the east corridor to his apartment.

“So, ah, I feel like I’m doing things out of order,” Barnes said. “Do you go by Steve?”

Steve flushed and laughed. “Yes. You?”

“James is fine.”

“Just fine?”

He laughed. “Back home everyone calls me Bucky, because my grandfather is also a James and my middle name is Buchanan, but that’s just for family.”

“Okay, James,” Steve said, waving his watch over the sensor next to his door. He placed his hand on the small of James’ back to usher him into the apartment and realized with a delicious thrill that he could feel the slow shift of the muscles of his back through the thick wool of the coat as he walked into the foyer.

“Wow,” James said as Steve hung up both their coats and their tuxedo jackets in the closet. Steve didn’t need to follow his gaze; he knew he was looking at _Summer #3_ , his massive, eight-by-eight-foot homage to his childhood birthday trips to the beach. “That’s—what is it?”

“It’s Coney Island,” he said, walking over to the canvas. “So these greens and blues and grays are the ocean, and this is the beach, full of people, you see all the short little dashes and dots, and then you see all these bigger, brighter strokes here? That’s the boardwalk.”

James hummed doubtfully.

“It’s okay,” Steve said with a soft laugh. “It’s called ‘abstract’ for a reason.”

“It’s nice, though,” James mused, moving closer to Steve’s side. He smelled amazing, Steve noticed. He wasn’t sure if it was his soap or some kind of very subtle cologne, but it reminded him of sandalwood and vanilla and faint though it was, he found it intoxicating. “I like the colors.”

“Well that’s something,” Steve teased gently, not unaware that his voice had dropped about half an octave. “You’re not interested in the art.”

“I’m not un-interested,” James allowed, turning toward him. “But I might be more interested in the artist right now.”

Steve leaned forward and kissed him then, soft and easy, equal parts question and invitation. He felt James smile into the kiss, and then he answered Steve with a kiss of his own, harder and hungrier, and the want of it unlocked something old in Steve, something old and familiar and very much missed.

He wrapped his arms around James’ back and James wrapped his right arm around Steve’s shoulders, cupping his hand against the back of Steve’s neck; he kept his left arm out of the way, though whether that was out of some concern for Steve’s sensibilities or because he was simply too distracted to manipulate it, Steve didn’t know. He was too distracted himself to think much about it, though, because James was a very, very good kisser.

Then James stepped back a little, not enough to break the kiss but just enough to bring his hand around to Steve’s chest and work his finger into the knot of Steve’s tie. The tug of the tie against the back of his neck, the friction as James pulled the loose tail of silk through his collar was all it took to make Steve fully hard. 

Once he disposed of the tie, he went to work on the buttons of Steve’s shirt, deftly popping each one loose one-handed without breaking the kiss. Steve tucked his thumbs into the waistband of James’ pants at his hips, pressing his fingers hard into the meat of his ass, craving more. The months he spent in the backcountry every year had sculpted every inch of him, Steve thought, and he couldn’t wait until it was his turn to relieve James of his clothes.

The instant James thumbed Steve’s last button loose, Steve’s hands flew to James’ tie so he could perform the same service. He was clumsy with anticipation and James laughed.

“What?” Steve pouted as he finally dragged the tie away and started on the buttons.

“You’re cute when you’re wanty,” James said, nibbling his bottom lip.

Steve hummed in agreement. “I _do_ want,” he murmured, pulling James’ shirt away and easing it down over his shoulders, revealing the narrow black webbed harness that held his arm in place, strapped over a tight white undershirt with the left sleeve cut off. The arm was black, too—an ultralight carbon polymer with a delicate silvery scaled texture designed for airplane wings, according to the literature—except for the translucent white socket at his shoulder and the steel hook at the end. For a device whose design had really not changed in a hundred years, the effect was unexpectedly futuristic.

And unexpectedly beautiful.

“I’ll do this part,” James said, shrugging his shirt away and reaching up with his right hand to loosen the straps and ease the arm off. He lay it on a nearby armchair, then rolled off the silicone-lined sock he wore over it and peeled off his undershirt before turning back to face Steve. As he did, he twisted his shoulder a little and held out his stump for Steve to see. The deltoid was still intact, and overdeveloped from the demands of the prosthesis, with a thick semicircular scar along the margin.

“So that’s what that looks like,” he said, keeping his voice matter-of-fact but unable to disguise the challenge in his eyes. “In case you were curious.”

“You’re gorgeous, you know that?” Steve said, his eyes drinking in the sight of James’ finely carved chest and abdomen, downed with a fine T of hair in the center. Steve dragged his own undershirt over his head and tossed it away, then hooked his fingers through James’ belt loops and drew him in so close their chests touched as they kissed. “I think you _do_ know that,” he added, wrapping his arms around James’ back as he nibbled his ear. “I think you thought you were testing me.”

“Maybe,” James said, smiling against Steve’s cheek. He threaded his arm around Steve’s back and dragging his blunt fingernails down his spine before working his hand down past Steve’s waistband into his underwear.

“Did I pass?” Steve asked, dipping his head to plant soft, sucking kisses to James’ neck.

“Maybe,” James repeated, cupping Steve’s ass and pulling himself hard against Steve’s hip. He was as hard as Steve was and, from the way he was grinding against Steve’s belly, just as hungry, too.

Only then did Steve realize how close they’d gotten to the broad glass doors that gave out onto the balcony. The curtains were open and below them the city sparkled in riotous yellows and reds and greens, still thrumming with life at one in the morning on a Wednesday. No one could see them from below, but it was still an adolescent thrill to let James finish undressing him so close to the window, to stand naked and powerful so far above the city he loved best.

When it came time to return the favor, Steve knelt before him to unbuckle his belt, pausing to plant delicate little kisses along the smooth skin of James’ belly. Next the button of his fly and then the zip, each time pausing for more kisses as James’ breath shallowed and stumbled and his fingers curled tightly into Steve’s hair. The pain was unexpected and bracing and delicious, and Steve made quick work of James’ pants and boxer briefs next.

“What do you want?” Steve asked, sitting back on his heels, his hands resting lightly on James’ hips.

“That’s not obvious by now?” James asked with a sly little grin, rotating his hips a little bit beneath Steve’s touch.

“What do you like?” Steve amended, playfully smacking his ass.

“That works,” James said, his fingers curling harder into Steve’s hair.

“Oh?”

“I don’t like it when people treat me like I’m fragile.”

“That’s probably the last word I would ever use to describe you,” Steve said.

“I know,” James said, pulling Steve’s head back a little so he could lean down to kiss him. “That’s why I came.”

The kiss was filthy and needy, and Steve stood and pushed him back into the wall to deepen it. James pushed and grabbed at him, fighting him but not really, Steve thought, but he paused anyway.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Steve said, his lips still touching James’. “I’ll stop.”

“I know you will,” James said, nipping Steve’s lower lip hard. “You’re Captain America.”

Steve froze and pulled back. “No,” he said. “Not in here I’m not. If that’s what you’re looking for—”

“Oh shit, no, no,” James said, his hand flying away from Steve’s skin. “It was a joke. A bad one. I’m sorry. Some people have a fetish about the arm, so I get it. I’m not here for that.”

Steve paused and decided to believe him. “Okay,” he said, kissing James lightly.

“Let’s start over,” James said, sliding his arm around Steve’s lower back to draw him closer. “Steve.”

“James.”

They kissed more slowly now, the mood not broken but changed. Something had shifted between them, and deepened, as though they’d both realized they had nothing to prove to each other anymore. Steve took James’ hand in his and led him into the bedroom, lay him back on the pillows and climbed on top of him, kissing everything he could reach.

“Can I fuck you?” Steve asked softly, his heart pounding hard in his ears, realizing as he spoke that he had no idea how men negotiated these things in the 21st century.

James smiled and kissed him hard. “Yes,” he said, rolling onto his side.

Steve curled around him, pressing kisses against James’ ear and shoulder, noticing the way his left shoulder flexed back toward Steve, as though James wanted to reach around and pull him closer. Steve obliged by tightening his hold around James’ chest and knew he’d guessed right when James closed his hand hard around Steve’s wrist.

“I want you,” Steve murmured in James’ ear, pushing himself hard against him.

“I know,” James said with a low laugh and rolling his ass against Steve’s hips. “What are you waiting for?”

That triggered a fresh urgency, not needy but eager, a delicious, overwhelming _want_ that Steve hadn’t felt since—well, not since the war, anyway. He made quick work with the slick and the condom—he couldn’t catch or transmit anything anymore, but the serum had left him so sensitive that he used the buffer to keep himself from coming long enough to please his partner—and as he eased himself in, he exhaled slowly with a breath he had not realized he’d been holding all night.

“You okay?” he asked James, and when James nodded he reached around and took James’ cock in his still-slippery hand.

“Fuck, that’s nice,” James murmured with a ragged sigh.

They began to move together, gently at first while they found their fit, then harder, rougher as the siren of their desire blared, demanding to be addressed. James’ fingers crushed against Steve’s wrist as he chewed on the pillow, eager to mouth something, anything as Steve struck that tender spot inside him that he knew would release a frisson of delight through James’ body.

James’ voice began to leak into his breaths and the sound of his moans and the slap of their skin was unbearable, it was too much, it was too wonderful, it erased the world and left Steve drowning in pleasure, and he held onto James for dear life as they crested the final swell together, with voice and breath and skin and body, and suddenly there were stars floating all around them like snow carrying them back down to earth, to the bed, to each other’s arms, together.

They lay for a while unmoving, boneless and breathless, until James laughed a little and slid apart to roll on his back and face Steve. “That was nice,” he said. “More than nice.”

Steve smiled. “Yeah. A lot more than nice.”

James opened his mouth as if to say something else, then thought better and closed it. Steve tried not to read too much into that.

“I’m going to shower,” Steve said, giving him an out. But also another in: “There’s room for two, if you want.”

James chose the latter and followed him into the bathroom. There was something nice—more than nice—about doing this together, tenderly washing each other clean, trading kisses beneath the water but nothing else because their nerve endings were still so raw from their lovemaking that the sweep of the sponge was all they could bear. Steve had never felt like this before, so deeply and profoundly spent, and it was a revelation.

Afterward, Steve stripped the ruined quilt away and they climbed beneath the comforter together, hardly noticing their hair soaking the pillows. He couldn’t remember them deciding to do this, to sleep beside each other, but here they were anyway, curled up facing each other, almost nose to nose with James’ hand lightly resting between Steve’s.

“Don’t be offended, but that was better than your painting,” James said, gazing at Steve with a playful smile.

Steve kissed him lightly. “You haven’t seen all of them yet.”

“Am I going to have to compare each one?” James asked, his eyes meeting Steve’s, and without thinking, Steve made a decision he didn’t even notice he was considering.

“I’ve got more than we can cover in one night,” Steve said. “You’ll have to come back.”

“I took tomorrow off,” James said, sleep stealing into his voice now. “We can start in the morning.”

Steve hummed an indistinct assent and relaxed into the pillow. It was ridiculous to entertain these ideas now, in the afterglow, while they were still buzzing with the thrill of connection. Maybe the morning would change James’ mind. Probably, he tried to convince himself. James would probably change his mind in the morning. Dating famous people was hard. Dating famous people with dangerous jobs was harder. Dating famous people with dangerous enemies—no, he wouldn’t blame James for not wanting to go anywhere near that.

But maybe. Maybe Steve would show him his other paintings. Maybe he would introduce him to Natasha. Maybe James would take him out to one of his field clinics. Maybe he would get to meet his son. Maybe one day—

It had been a long time since he’d felt anything resembling hope. Not since the war. Not since Peggy.

It was strange.

It was nice.

It was more than nice.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a slut for comments.
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](https://beaarthurpendragon.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/PendragonBea).


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